


A Beggar's Knowledge of Want

by sithmarauder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Universe, Domestic Fantasies, Getting Together, Intimacy, M/M, Pining, Playing Fast and Loose With the Canon Timeline, Porn with Feelings, Porn with a Very Thin Plot, Sex, the obligatory nod to how fine James Clark Ross was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28614264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithmarauder/pseuds/sithmarauder
Summary: You want him to keep you, shame whispered when it reached his ear, making Thomas purse his lips and suppress a shudder as his fingers curled around the tea canister he had stored up top earlier that morning.You want him to keep you, and that is a far more terrible thing.It is shameful fantasy and nothing but to desire Edward Little the way he does.  Thomas, more fool him, will take that secret to his grave.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 26
Kudos: 95





	A Beggar's Knowledge of Want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vegetas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetas/gifts).



> This fic is inspired by, dedicated to, and would not exist without Hannah, for whom the joplittle sun shines every day.

He supposed they had the ice to thank for the fact that they were celebrating Christmas at all, though from what Thomas had discerned from the men, it was a mixed blessing.

“The only thing Christmas-like here is the bleedin’ snow,” he’d overheard Farr sigh to a sympathetic Peglar, who had placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder in commiseration before glancing longingly in the direction of _Erebus_ when he knew Farr could not see.

“Are we s’posed to celebrate when that creature is out there stalkin’ us, most like?” another man had grumbled.

“More cheer for the officers than the crew,” Gibson had muttered as he’d made his way to where the lieutenants’ cabins lay, his face pinched and his eyes dead weights in their sockets. Readying their captain himself now, Thomas questioned how much cheer _Terror’s_ officers could really feel as they prepared to march a few kilometres through snow and ice, and he hummed sympathetically when Crozier spoke of danger and arrogant men and their panting lapdogs, shoulders tense under Thomas’ hands as he slid the epaulettes into place with practiced ease.

“Anything else, sir?” Thomas asked, and Crozier favoured him with a crooked, wry smile. Thomas felt relief unfurl in his chest: it was one of the captain’s good days, it seemed, despite his reluctance to make the journey to _Erebus_.

“Not unless you’ve got some black powder hidden in that pantry of yours, Jopson.”

“I will make sure to include it next expedition, sir.”

Crozier chuckled at that, eyes warming somewhat as Thomas held his coat, helping him slip it on. It was routine, sweet and comforting even after all that had gone wrong, and Thomas took pride in it, took pride in making the captain look as smart as he could, both for his own sake—he was _good_ at what he did, he knew that—and for the captain’s. _He’s a lush,_ Hoar had told him early in the expedition, repeating sentiments Thomas had no doubt he’d picked up from the men he served, expression falsely sympathetic as though he thought Thomas were somehow unaware of Crozier’s drinking when Thomas _himself_ was the one who kept an even eye on the supply.

“But he’s not a fool. Mind yourself,” had been Thomas’ cool response, and he had held Hoar’s gaze in silent reprimand until Franklin’s— _Fitzjames’ now, I suppose_ —steward had flushed and looked away. _Insipid boy_ , Thomas had thought at the time, anger churning under the carefully constructed facade. Hoar stood taller than he, for all that Thomas was his elder, and there was satisfaction to be found in the deference, but a loose, wagging tongue could only lead to trouble, and it was behaviour like that which made it more difficult for them to find a place among the crew.

Best nip it in the bud, Thomas thought as he surveyed Crozier with a critical eye, and not bark too loudly at the hands that feed, especially over things their ranks prevented them from doing anything about. Thomas had learned that long ago, and had watched better men than he fall prey to follies easily avoided. The captain’s steward’s position depended on and derived from the regard of his captain. Thomas was lucky his captain was a good man, and one who treated him fairly and well, lush or not.

“Do I pass muster, then?” Crozier asked, raising an eyebrow. Thomas pressed his mouth into his best approximation of an English matron for a moment, then let the corners quirk up into a smile.

“You will, or I will not have done my job,” he said with false primness, wordlessly handing over Crozier’s hat, freshly cleaned and pristine. A fierce pride welled up in his chest seeing Crozier put together, eyes narrowing the slightest bit in satisfaction. Whatever _Erebus_ ’ command team had thought in the past, Crozier was the best chance this expedition had at success now. They could disparage all they liked, and it would not change the fact that Captain Crozier had more ice sense two bottles in than Franklin or Fitzjames did together and sober.

Criticizing a dead man would not aid their current situation, however, and so Thomas merely stepped back and waited for Crozier to finish composing himself. He did not have to wonder why Crozier had agreed to the Christmas dinner, though he dreaded it so—with Franklin’s death still looming over them all, and with the creature lurking God only knew where, a united front was important, a bit go levity needed, though every time _Terror_ played host to the _Erebus_ officers (a rare thing, nowadays), he could not help but dwell on the fact that he seemed to set one less place at the table each time.

 _That is why he goes_ , Thomas thought as Crozier sighed and straightened his shoulders. _Poor Fitzjames. To be captain to a demoralized crew and with nary half his command team intact._ _Such large shoes to step into_.

For all his faults, the men had, on the whole, liked Franklin, if only for his genial, kind nature. Thomas did not envy Fitzjames the responsibilities, not when he saw the grim way Crozier had shouldered his own, the weight of over a hundred souls his to bear.

Crozier said nothing else to him, but that was par for the course, and Thomas followed him out of the cabin and onto the upper deck, the cold winter air stealing the oxygen from his lungs and leaving him feeling like he had inhaled a handful of his embroidery needles. He missed the sun, for all that his time in the Ross expedition had prepared him for the lack of it. Everything seemed colder without the light, more bleak, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the partial glow of the lanterns as they made their way towards where the party bound for _Erebus_ stood.

“Ah, Edward.” Crozier said, and Thomas felt his heart squirm and lodge itself firmly in his throat as _Terror’s_ first lieutenant turned around to look at them, the hand he’d rested on Lieutenant Irving’s shoulder slipping away as he acknowledged Crozier with a respectful dip of his head. “Good to see the men on time.” But there was no warmth in Crozier’s eyes, only dread, and Thomas could see an answering exhaustion and wariness in Little’s. Near the gunwale, Irving watched them all with an ill-concealed longing, panic briefly registering in his face when Crozier took him aside and began to speak in low tones.

Thomas took the opportunity to step back a little, melting into the shadows of the polar night. _Only a few weeks more_ , he told himself, but his musings were interrupted when he felt someone join him. Solid and steady in the gloom, Little’s presence was a surprise that Thomas kept under wraps, hands pressing together in a brief, courteous greeting.

“Lieutenant,” he murmured, made cosy by Little’s attentions.

“Mr. Jopson,” Little returned. He said nothing else, but his lips parted slightly before he closed them again, turning his head to gaze over the darkness of the ice.

“Will you be staying here, then?” Little asked, and Thomas, blinking at the odd question and hoping the darkness would cover the way his eyes traced all he could see of Little, could only incline his head.

He felt a lot warmer now, standing on _Terror’s_ deck, and he knew that had little to do with the ship’s state of the art heating and everything to do with the man at his side.

It was nothing new. His preoccupation with Little, his _regard_ —they were things Thomas'd had years, now, to come to terms with, and yet he still felt unmoored every time the lieutenant’s attentions focused on him, the insipid, vain little creature that he hid from the outside world at all times preening and cooing whenever he felt those dark eyes rest on him.

 _That’s it, keep looking_ , he wanted to tell Little with the curve of his mouth, the dip of his chin, the flick of his eyes. _No, look away_ , the rest of him wished to say as he did his best to fade into the background, as a man of his rank and position was expected to—worse than a child, for at least a child was allowed to be seen.

Little was looking now, though; had once again plucked Thomas neatly out of his hiding spot and bestowed the warmth of summer on him. There was no point in trying to run. One could not hide from the sun.

“Yes, sir.” _Where else would I be?_ the smile pulling at his lips asked, teased, because he was feeling unbearably stupid this day, because he did not want Little to feel silly for having asked, because Edward Little made a damfool out of him. Little, a quick study and, more to the point, a man who had proved he always wanted to learn, picked up on it, and Thomas’ reward was the smallest twitch of those lips and an acknowledging dip of Little’s head, though a flash of something that looked remarkably like disappointment flickered across his face.

“Mr. Jopson, I only wished to tell you that I—“ Little broke off, and Thomas waited, curiosity piqued. This was an unknown, a bit of the unexpected, and, oh how Thomas did love to uncover things.

“Sir?” he prompted softly when Little did not continue, leaning forward a bit to hear Little better over the wind. Little exhaled, and he looked about to continue, but then his eyes flicked over to where the captain had glanced back at them. Thomas stiffened, but Crozier only regarded them for a moment more before he turned his attention back to Irving, who was nodding his head at something. Silently, Thomas glanced back at Little, who looked for a moment like he wanted to say something more, or to reach out and rest a hand on Thomas’ shoulder, the way Thomas had seen him do for Irving and Hodgson in the past ( _tactile_ , Thomas remembered observing with surprise the first few times he’d noticed it, and had sighed at himself for the preoccupation with Little’s hands that had followed in the weeks after that), but in the end he merely curled his fingers into fists at his side.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Jopson,” Little said at last, but his brow was slightly furrowed as he said it, his mouth half-open in the way Thomas had come to learn meant he was conflicted or unsure about something. 

“Happy Christmas, Lieutenant,” Thomas said. Little looked at him a moment longer with that same furrowed brow and half-open mouth before he closed it and made his way back to Crozier.

There was no need to watch Little go. To do so spoke of unbearable sentimentality and, worse, was a breach of the rules Thomas had laid down for himself long ago, even before the southern ice floes had spirited him away from the mainland. There was no need, but there were also no witnesses, or at least no one who would think Thomas were looking at anything out of the ordinary, and so Thomas watched, listened to those heavy, even footprints until they were lost to the low murmur of voices and the howl of the wind.

 _Abominable, Mr. Jopson_ , he told himself before dipping his head when Crozier turned back to dismiss him. For a moment he flicked his eyes towards where the men would march for _Erebus_ , and he found himself sending a prayer to a God had not believed in for years to keep these men safe this eve.

“Let them come back to me,” he whispered, soft and hushed, glancing back once as he rested his hand on the wooden door that would lead him below, and he could not help the way his breath caught as he realized one of them men was staring back at him.

His hand tightened on the door, but he drew in a breath and retreated, aware of the weight of Little’s stare even once the door had shut between them.

* * *

Cataloguing Crozier’s private stores in the safety of the pantry, Thomas could admit that his preoccupation with _Terror’s_ first lieutenant had stopped being harmless some time ago. Early on in the expedition, he’d acknowledged the potential for a problem, but that had been nothing out of the ordinary; there were many lovely men who took to the sea, and, over the years, Thomas had learned to build up a thick skin—a particular set of armour constructed to ensure his own survival as a creature who dwelt among the ranks and yet lived outside of them as well.

For years it had worked. There had been some fine sights out on the water, and he remembered the early days of the Ross expedition when he had been so sure he would combust should Ross even glance his way, but he had been younger, then, skirting the rosewater lines. He knew better now.

Or at least, he should have known better.

He sighed, fingers brushing over the folded linens he’d stored in the drawers after the last round of laundry. The mess was alive with men doing their best to pretend they had anything to celebrate, but Thomas had taken his leave quickly enough when the mood had turned melancholic, many of those present lamenting the wives and sweethearts they’d left on the mainland.

He’d nothing against the missing, but there was little Thomas could contribute to it. He’d no one waiting for him back home, and even before he had left he could not remember the sorts of Christmastimes many of the others could. It was best not to give the men leave to look too deeply into the ways Thomas differed from them, at any rate. Survival meant walking a thin line, and the line he’d strung between himself and the rest of _Terror’s_ crew to not only survive but _thrive_ was an even thinner one. The reputation he strove to maintain among the men could be destroyed in an instant by the wrong sort of mistake, and Thomas—

Thomas feared he was closer than ever to toppling over that particular ledge.

For now, the men had developed a grudging respect for him. At the very least they listened when he spoke and trusted that he would not run to the captain and report every transgression like the begging, simpering thing many of them had thought him to be before he had worked to prove otherwise. Now, they trusted his professionalism; his reputation; his competence.

They would trust none of that if they knew Thomas was about an hour from destroying it over a pair of soulful dark eyes and a kind heart. If they knew Thomas was so far _gone_ for their first lieutenant that he was slowly breaking his own rules just to feel the rush that Little’s regard brought. The potential problem that he had acknowledged upon first catching sight of Edward Little had become a problem in full, and one for which he had no real recourse. Once long ago Crozier had protected him from a youth’s follies, but Thomas was no longer that green young man, twenty-one and flush with an eagerness to please, and he could not count on Crozier to save him from this.

Thomas would not want Crozier to know of it, at any rate.

He pulled the linens from their drawers. Behind him, the lantern flickered, and he lifted his head just as the ice gave an almighty groan on the other side of their wooden cradle, _Terror’s_ hull wailing in sympathy.

 _Nothing for it_ , Thomas thought grimly, sliding the drawers shut and refolding the linens atop them. _A pity the ice cannot be frightened the way the Americans were._

Many of _Terror’s_ crew had already been transferred to _Erebus_ for fear that _Terror_ would lose her battle with the elements at last, but there remained enough to see her through for now, and for that, Thomas was grateful. 

He searched for the sewing supplies next, unearthing a spare needle and some rolled threads with a low _ah_. Next came the buttons he’d wrapped in cloth and placed in the selfsame linen drawer for ease’s sake. The shirt to be repaired already sat in Crozier’s cabin, carefully laid out on the back of one of the chairs—not Crozier’s, or his own, but Lieutenant Little’s; a favour to Gibson, who had muttered about lieutenants and their disregard for the uniform.

Thomas had said nothing to that. To say anything would have invited Gibson’s scrutiny, and he’d wanted none of the risk, not when he knew Gibson whispered in the caulker’s ear. He had simply offered aid, one servant to another, and had nodded when it had been accepted before withdrawing, prize in hand, with a straight face and a head full of chidings.

 _Unusually careless,_ Thomas had thought of the shirt, brushing his hands over where frayed threads spoke to buttons worried loose.

It happened. It happened even more when there existed a creature that seemed intent on stalking their every step one moment, only to disappear in the next.

He thought again to the officers aboard _Erebus_. They must have made it, they _must_ have, or Thomas would have heard the great wail of a ship who’d lost her entire command crew in one go by now. Little himself had made the trip several times, though Thomas’ mouth thinned when he thought of the reason why, his eyes straying to where he kept the captain’s personal stash, now supplemented by ill-gotten gains.

 _He’s a lush_ , Hoar’s voice whispered in his mind, and Thomas shook his head. It was not his place to criticize their captain, not when he _knew_ Crozier was, at heart, a good man, one whom Thomas served willingly and gladly, but the rosey hue in which he’d once viewed Crozier had long given way to reality.

A lot of things had given way to reality in the aftermath of Ross’ expedition, the victory flush fading quickly the moment he’d realized he’d come home to ruin.

 _That’s enough of that,_ he told himself sternly, stepping back and reaching up to run his fingers through his own hair, dislodging it from its part. He would fix it before he departed, would never dream of allowing anyone ( _almost_ anyone) to see it so mussed, but for now he left it, strands hanging in his face as he rested his back against the port drawers, letting out another low sigh. He was stalling, he knew. A poor look for anyone, but especially for Thomas.

 _“Happy Christmas, Mr. Jopson_ ,” Little had told him, nothing but sincerity in the words, because Edward Little was many things, but a liar was not one of them. He spoke what he meant, or he said nothing at all. He affected no airs—or at the very least, had given it up very early on, after a few of his comments had led to a sharp look from Crozier, who was never shy in letting his disappointment with his officers shine through. Thomas had experience with the officer class, knew damn well how most of them tended towards behaving. Hodgson was a quiet one, shaky and unsure, easily led but good at the core of himself. In Irving Thomas saw more of the tendencies he was used to seeing in the young officers without the experience to back up their ranks: the brashness, the sharp words, the overcompensation; the anger which poorly covered the fears that lay beneath.

 _“If you refuse, I will not recommend you to be lashed again. I will recommend you sit in there with your friends, with the door locked, ’til you learn that God grants us many things in this world but he does not grant us ghosts!_ ”

Crozier had once said that Thomas heard everything, and it was an exaggeration, but not much of one. The difference between himself and Hoar was that he used what he heard prudently, and not for petty personal reasons. A captain had to know what was happening under his nose to effectively lead the men under his command, and so Thomas told him the things he needed to know where and when Crozier asked, but other things—

 _Many_ things he kept quiet, because the secrets were not his to bargain with, and he had learned long ago that a loose tongue was a deadly thing for a man in his position to have. The secrets of others, his own—it was a trade currency that Thomas kept close to heart, used sparingly, and only when needed.

Linens and supplies readied, Thomas drifted closer to the captain’s stores. _Stalling again, Tom,_ a voice chided him, heavily accented—his own, or the one that used to be his own. _Keep this up an’ they’ll be barkin’ at the door before you’ve taken two steps outside._

His fingers skimmed over one of the bottles, lips curling, and he plucked it from its resting place, listening to the liquid slosh about inside. He hated the familiarity of the bottle. Hated the way it made good people turn black from the inside out.

Hated all the terrible things that could be housed inside such an innocent-looking vessel.

 _Come back to me_ , he’d thought at Little the last time Crozier had sent him out into the cold, lingering near Crozier’s cabin to capture Little’s gaze in a moment of thoughtlessness. _You’d best come back, Lt. Little, or I will be most cross._ Little had looked startled to see him there, but something had changed in his face when Thomas had quietly lowered his head, and he had given Thomas a small nod of his own before departing, shouldering the disappointment of both the expedition’s captains as he went.

Thomas had listened to him walk away until he could hear no more.

He’d known, then, that he had overstepped. That he had crossed an invisible boundary, fallen too far to ever claw his way back up. All those years, all those lessons, thrown away because he wanted nothing more than to care for a man who seemed determined to take on a series of impossible tasks. The worst part was Little never complained. The more he was told to do, the more he did. He never shirked his responsibilities, never gave orders he himself was not prepared to follow. Some of the men thought him cold, _“bit of an odd duck, that one,_ ” MacDonald had even remarked early on, but Thomas—

Thomas knew better. And that… that was a whole other problem.

Footsteps caught his attention, heavy and even and familiar, and Thomas frowned, turning his head towards the closed pantry door, because they sounded like— _no_ , he told himself, _stop this._ His fingers tightened on the neck of the bottle nonetheless, and he wondered if whoever it was would bridge the gap, stepping from their world into his.

Nothing came. The presence on the other side of the door seemed to linger, and Thomas could see the shadows underneath that spoke of a man standing still, but there came no knock, no words. Just silence. Thomas waited quietly, bottle in hand, until whoever it was seemed to think better of themselves and move on, leaving Thomas to watch the shadows retreat with bated breath.

There was not a soul onboard who did not know how fiercely Thomas guarded his domain, and there was not a soul onboard who would try to challenge it. Hornby had tried, early on, earning Thomas’ enmity, but that had smoothed out over time with a new understanding: that Thomas was not here to trod on anyone’s toes, would not put on airs; that he was, in fact, here to do his own job and do it _well_ and with high standards, and just as he expected to not be crossed, he would not cross anyone in turn, in any way.

He wondered if the man on the other side had seen the light on and thought better of whatever it was he had been planning. Or perhaps it had been the _Esquimaux_ girl, though in the month she had been aboard the ship, Thomas had not known her to wander the decks overmuch.

He uncurled his fingers from the bottle’s neck and placed it back with the rest of the spirits. Everything was so strange nowadays, so surreal—one never knew when a weapon was needed, and in the absence of a rifle’s familiar weight, a bottle would have to do.

 _It’s time to go_ , he told himself firmly, shaking off the chill that had crept up his spine. _You’d best prepare for when the men return._

And they _would_ return, safe and sound, because Thomas would entertain no thoughts to the contrary.

Grabbing the linen sets and the carefully wrapped sewing supplies, and pausing to retrieve one of the small tins of lanolin salve he kept in one of the other drawers, Thomas waited a few moments before slipping from the pantry, walking briskly to Crozier’s cabin with his precious cargo. The men would not return for hours yet, he was sure, but idle hands had always been a personal enemy of his, his work a familiar comfort he could always fall back on.

He encountered no one on his way to the captain’s cabin. The officer’s mess was silent, missing the vast majority of its occupants, and the port cabins, bereft of the command team, lay empty. Little’s cabin, nearest the captain’s, caught Thomas’ eye, and he frowned before reaching out to gently pull the door, sitting slightly ajar, closed.

The shirt lay where he left it in Crozier’s cabin, and Thomas carefully lit one of the lamps before studying it, running his fingers over the fabric before they caught on the frayed edges of the sleeves. Thomas could only imagine the worried movements it would have taken to do this, and he sighed, eyes softening despite himself.

 _Tea_ , he thought suddenly, wearily. _That’s what I need._

“Thomas! Happy Christmas,” MacDonald greeted affably as Thomas was making his way back to the pantry. He looked as though he’d just emerged from the officer’s mess—not a surprise, truly, not with so many of _Terror’s_ mates and lower-ranking officers having been moved to _Erebus_ —and Thomas, remembering the presence near the pantry, slowed despite himself, head cocked to the side.

“Happy Christmas,” he said after a moment. “Were you looking for me earlier?”

MacDonald blinked, then shook his head. “Ah, no, I’m afraid not. Is something wrong?”

“Someone stopped by the pantry earlier, is all,” Thomas said vaguely. “Didn’t leave a calling card.”

“Oh.” MacDonald’s brow furrowed. “The lieutenant was out here a bit ago. I suppose it could have been him. He’s been a mite distracted all evening and said he was going to make the rounds, last I heard.”

Thomas nodded. If it was Irving, it still left some things unexplained, but at least the knowing put some of Thomas’ worries to rest. If Irving were in need of a steward, it was unlikely he would look to Thomas specifically, not when Gibson was about, but Thomas had not missed the poorly-concealed anxiety Irving had been sporting before the officer party had left for _Erebus_. If he were truly worried, or unsettled, it was likely he had just happened to stop there; nothing to do with Thomas or his pantry at all.

“Thank you,” Thomas said. MacDonald rewarded him with an easy smile, and rested a friendly hand on Thomas’ shoulder.

“Take some time off,” _Terror’s_ surgeon said knowingly before he turned and made his way down the halls. Thomas waited a moment before opening the pantry again, part of him wondering if Irving were about to pop out of the woodworks—the man had a strange tendency to show up at the most inopportune times—but he shook it off, closing the door behind him.

Hours. He had hours yet, and nothing to do with himself once the mending was done. His eyes strayed to the tank, placed snugly to the right of the pantry, and after a moment he moved to where he stored the tins he himself drank out of, the rare times he had a chance to do so. Job done, he could return to the mess for some extra rations, but dismissed the notion just as quickly. 

His eyes flicked to one of the drawers, and he sucked in a breathe. Beyond the hundreds of books that _Terror_ had brought with her to sea, Thomas had books of his own tucked away in here. Some were Crozier’s personal ones that he’d never minded letting Thomas borrow, but beneath even those were the tawdry things Thomas had brought from home: poems, sonnets, and a small compilation of Barnfield’s works to go with the penny dreadfuls he’d smuggled aboard.

He could partake in those, could curl up in Crozier’s cabin and read until the tension eased from his shoulders, but the readings brought with them their own problems: imagination. Longing. Things he was better off forgetting, things that the fictional universes and feelings conjured by the works of others only made more acute.

A young maid waiting at the sea’s edge for her lover to come home. A wife, faithful and true, standing in the threshold of her house as she watched her man return from war or the sea. A marriage bed, lovingly used. A husband, dark and dashing, good and kind. And no matter what he did, Thomas could not help the way those dark heroes turned familiar in his mind, the authors’ descriptions giving way to thick chestnut waves, a strong jaw, a straight nose, and those achingly familiar brown eyes.

Those pieces, those soft things, were far more dangerous than the bodice rippers ever could be for the longings they inspired, because the maid at the sea’s edge, the wife in her home—they implied longevity, more than just a quick and salacious romp, and in the deep corners of his mind, tucked away where no one else could see…

He wanted that above all other things. Wanted to wait by the seaside for his sailor to return; to stand in the doorway of a house that was his as the man walking up the path was his; wanted a marriage bed all his own.

And he wanted that with Edward Little, a want so impossible he would have had better luck wishing for the ice to free them on the ‘morrow and send them back to Crown and Empire on angel wings.

Slowly, he reached up to where the tea canisters were stored, his mind alight. He imagined making tea in that home that was his, that was theirs, and drinking it by the fire; of Little, reading quietly in an armchair while Thomas mended his shirts, the both of them safe and warm and comfortable; the sailor and his wife.

How novel it would have been to be that kept boy, that kept wife, but that sort of life wasn’t for people like him, and Thomas knew that; had always known that. Oh, he wanted Edward Little to ruin him, to put his hands on him and take and _take_ until Thomas had nothing left in him to give, but that was a familiar want. Little cut a striking figure, for all that he seemed unaware of it, but a fine figure was not enough to strip Thomas of the fine sense he had spent years cultivating.

A good heart was a far worse thing. A far more dangerous thing. And once Thomas had discovered Little’s, that had been the end of it all.

Striking men in Her Majesty’s Discovery Service were ten a pence. A pretty face in a fitted uniform, a fine figure to rest his eyes upon during a long day; these things Thomas had dealt with before, tucking desire away into the deepest corners of his mind, cracked open only in safety and solitude. It was a problem, but it was not _the_ problem, and in most circumstances was an easily sorted one. No, Little’s unwavering devotion, his kindness, was the greater issue now, and as Thomas catalogued Crozier’s stores, he could feel the first curlings of shame climbing up his spine, tiny hands digging into where each bone interlocked.

 _You want him to keep you_ , it whispered when it reached his ear, making him purse his lips and suppress a shudder as his fingers curled around the tea canister he had stored up top earlier that morning. _You want him to keep you, and that is a far more terrible thing._

He shook his head and lowered himself back to the wooden deck, tucking the canister under his arm while he gathered his bearings, grateful for the closed door that kept the rest of the ship out. Then he set about making it.

It was fantasy and nothing but, the shameful things he wanted, and foolish fantasy at that. Thomas knew his place, and had watched others like him be put back in theirs with a forcefulness that had dissuaded any past desires to step outside of his role, but the fantasy persisted despite his best efforts, and the chore of tucking it away was becoming a burdensome thing, the light rapping at his armour becoming a persistent banging as time went on.

Were Little a brute, there would be no issue. Were Little a brute, or even a bit more like most men of his rank, Thomas could look his fill and be secure in the knowledge that Little would never deign to waste his time with what the officer class essentially deemed a _servant_ ; an idler aboard the ship who existed to serve and little else. Even if he did, a more brutish, arrogant nature would ensure Little’s acknowledgement of Thomas extended to a base use and nothing more, a way to pass time and scratch the itch that pulled at most any man who spent their years at sea.

The corners of Thomas’ mouth tugged into a small, rueful smile. He had spent enough time here. He’d best get a move on.

Crozier’s cabin was cool when he reached it, but it was not unbearable. The steam heating still worked despite it all and, likely doubting they would be limping their way back on two ships, the captain had given orders for its continued use. Thomas settled into the chair he had pulled out for himself earlier, the smell of the steeping tea relaxing him somewhat.

Then, quietly, he picked up Little’s shirt and began the process of mending it, wetting the ends of the thread in his mouth before threading the needle as quick as he dared.

Alone, it felt too intimate a thing. Alone, he could let his mind wander as he reached for the wrapped buttons and performed a task he had done too many times to count, his imagination alight with beautiful things, false things, impossible things. Alone, he could conjure up thoughts best left to the grave to which they would surely send him, his mind on strong hands and dark eyes, on steadfast hearts and silly, soft things. 

_Every man who is hanged leaves a poem_ , he thought bitterly, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. But the hangman’s noose did not stop the yearning. Did not curb the hunger. Caution and the executioner whispered their warnings in his ear but Thomas persisted in wanting nonetheless, a foolish want, a wicked want, for the captain’s first would never look twice at the captain’s steward, no matter how that pettish thing might wish otherwise.

Except—no.

Except—

 _No_.

(Except there were times when he thought he could see Lieutenant Little looking at him out of the corner of his eye; times when Thomas swore he could feel Little’s eyes lingering on him, resting on the breadth of Thomas’ shrinking shoulders. They were so heavy, those eyes, but _oh_ how Thomas would love to bear the weight of them, if only Little would allow him such grace.)

The needle went in. Out. It drew the button in close; secured it with a master’s touch. His father had been a tailor in another life. Thomas knew this dance.

He began it anew.

He pictured a house in the countryside, watching Edward Little walk up the well-worn path after months at sea, and he closes his eyes against the image of that mouth against his own, of the weight of Little bearing him against a place that was theirs, where Little kept him because Thomas allowed him to; because Thomas _wanted_ him to.

Longing keened in his breast, her cries mournful and increasingly familiar. He could not comfort her, though he wanted nothing else but to soothe, and so he paused, closing his eyes, as though that would silence her. What would it be like, he wondered, to give up all he had worked for for that house, that home? Why was he even considering it when where he was should have been enough—when where he was had once _been_ enough? Thomas Jopson, twenty-eight ( _thirty-one, Tom,_ vanity cooed _, you will lose yourself to this place_ ), captain’s steward: a base thing from Marylebone who had been lucky enough and hard-working enough to claw his way up to safety.

It was best he remembered his lot. The country life, the kept life that danced so tantalizingly behind his closed eyelids, was not the sort of life for men him like, and yet he imagined it nonetheless as he started on the second button. His lungs burned for the lack of air, and he blinked away the dizziness that came with forgetting the body’s need for oxygen, hissing when he felt the needle sink into his finger. On the table the irregular dimples of his silver thimble glittered meanly in the light of the lanterns, taunting him for having thought he could do away with it.

He slipped his finger out of his mouth and covered it with the thimble, iron and copper a rich poison on his tongue.

In and out. Another button drawn snug. Secured.

Once, when Little had come in from the cold, Thomas had taken one look at him and ordered him to stay still while he took the pilfered bottles and squirrelled them away in the pantry, emerging with cup of hot tea, which he’d shoved into Little’s frozen hands with a firm order for him to drink up, fingers curling over Little’s to ensure that the cup would not clatter to the wood. Little had looked at him and Thomas had been snared so utterly by that that he had forgotten to move his hands after, so that they had lingered over Little’s, rested there, until he had remembered himself and withdrew.

He had not expected Little to reach out, to _willingly_ grasp at his hand, to hold him there and look at him some more until the flush in Thomas’ cheeks had become impossible to hide.

“Thank you,” Little had said, and Thomas had only been able to nod before retreating, but in Little’s eyes—

 _Perhaps_ , Thomas started thinking: a dangerous word, a senseless wish. _Perhaps_ , that insidious little scrap of hope said as he seized the thread between his teeth and _pulled_ before tying it off, and he wondered when he’d started seriously considering the merits of ruining all he had worked so hard to achieve on the basis of _perhaps._

It should have frightened him. Did frighten him, really, the ease with which the notion came and the force of whatever ungodly soft thing lay ill-contained beneath, but all he could think about was that make-believe place in a make-believe time and the knowledge that if Edward Little would have him, Thomas would be wed and wife to him for the rest of his days.

He stood swiftly, mended shirt in hand, the tea gone lukewarm beside him. Mutely he folded it, leaving it to rest on the table, hesitating before he opened the little tin of salve and smoothing some of it over his cold-chapped hands. He let it sink in for a moment, sighing at the simulated softness, indulging in soothed vanity before he bustled about, occupying himself with storing the other linens he had brought back with him, desperate to change the course of his thoughts. The central drawers made a satisfying sound as Thomas slid them shut harshly, the warped wood screeching its protest, but Thomas ignored it, thought, viciously, _good_ , before standing and resting his hands atop them, head bowed.

The sound of the cabin door opening was the only warning he got before the heavy footfalls of a familiar gait cut through the haze of his thoughts, and he was pathetically grateful to not have been holding anything when he heard Edward Little say, “Mr. Jopson?”

“Sir?” The stilling of his hands was reflexive, the subtle straightening of his shoulders a response to the wary thing that had seized hold of him. He was aware, frightfully so, of Little’s presence somewhere behind him, not tucked safely aboard _Erebus_ as Thomas had assumed but here, real and horribly solid and straight of out Thomas’ nightmare fantasies.

 _I thought you were off-ship,_ Thomas did not say as he turned, lifting his head _just_ so to meet Little’s eyes. It was an inexcusable lapse on his part, something he should have known—something he _had_ known, for he had been present when Crozier had requested Irving stay aboard _Terror_ so that she might not be left an orphan at sea, bereft of her lieutenants’ inexperienced leadership. Had it been anyone else, Thomas would have barred them entry to the cabin. When the captain was absent this place, alongside the pantry, was _Thomas’_ domain, and the crew by and large knew better than to step on his toes in that matter.

Even Little, acting in the captain’s capacity while Crozier was off-ship, did not have free run of the place, but Thomas would allow him this. If Little asked, Thomas would allow him a great many foolish things, and Thomas’ standing amongst the crew, the reputation he had worked so hard to build, to maintain, would crumble in the wake of a pair of hickory eyes.

Little did not ask. Never asked anything of him, in fact, a saving grace for which Thomas was eternally grateful, even as he imagined Little asking for other things, things Thomas should have been ashamed of but had long accepted as simply things that were.

“Lieutenant?” he tried when Little said nothing, silent in a way Thomas had never seen before. Little could be a quiet one at times, no doubt, but there was a frank earnestness to him that always had him speaking his mind, regardless of the potential social blunder. He waited a moment longer, feeling concern curling in his gut. Had something happened? Another death? No, Little had never hesitated to deliver such news in the past. This was something else, and as Little continued to regard him, Thomas could feel the telltale flush creeping up his neck, filling the apples of his cheeks: two pinpoints of colour on an otherwise pale face.

 _Abhorrent_.

Thomas exhaled, and Little seemed to breathe with him. His mouth twitched, and so did Little’s. He reached up to brush aside the hair that had fallen into his eyes, and he watched Little’s own snap to and trace that small movement. _Perhaps_ , the creature whispered again, _it is not all in vain_ , but Thomas was not in the mood to entertain it, was suddenly not in the mood to entertain _any_ of this, did not think he was strong enough to endure it, and so he dipped his head and murmured a quick, “Pardon me, sir,” and made to leave before he could give himself away, before the precarious cliff he was balanced on gave under the weight of whatever it was in Little’s eyes, only for a hand around his bicep to stop him in his tracks, his head snapping up as he looked at Little, who looked as lost as Thomas felt.

 _He’s tall,_ Thomas remembered thinking when he first met _Terror’s_ first lieutenant, and it was no less true now as he tilted his head back, waiting, trapped. _Put your hands on me_ , he thought, _release me_. _Have me. Refuse me._

 _Please_ , _put an end to this._

He swallowed, his mouth gone suddenly, horribly dry. Little’s hand was warm where it held him, gentle. Unbearable. If Thomas wanted, he could wrench himself away, rebuke Little for his presumptions, and Little would apologize and they would never speak of this again, whatever it was. He didn’t. Instead, his mind filled with images of that country house, of those hands against him, familiar and so very, very warm. _Mrs. Little_ , something hummed, sang. _Your man has come home._

“Jopson,” Little said. It wasn’t the greeting Thomas had so often envisioned, but it made him want to sway nonetheless. Perhaps he would have, were he not utterly rooted to the spot, lost in the closeness of the man before him. No matter what happened after this, Thomas was not sure he would ever forget the burn of Little’s touch, the feeling of being restrained by those steady hands. It was over. The fall, that quiet thing, was complete, had been for a long time, and all that was left was to admit the terrible truth of it.

“You’d best tell me whatever it is quickly, sir,” Thomas said softly. “Liable to do something foolish in the interim if you don’t.”

“Foolish?” Little said, but he did not move, did not release Thomas, not until Thomas shifted and he let go as if burned. Colour had filled what Thomas could see of Little’s cheeks, but those eyes were intent on him, and Thomas thanked God for the closed door that separated them from the incessant gossips of the ship, preventing others from bearing witness to his fall from grace. 

“Aye.” It was almost a whisper. _Why are you here?_ he begged with the sentiment behind it.

“You don’t strike me as the type to do foolish things, Mr. Jopson.”

“Oh, sir,” Thomas sighed before he could stop himself, “I’m afraid I’ve been doing a great many of them as of late.”

Little cocked his head to the side. Swallowed. His eyes dipped down, and his thumb seemed to press harder into Thomas’ arm before he said, “Wait.”

“I’m here,” Thomas said.

Little shuddered. His whole face seemed to close off for a moment, and when he started speaking again, his eyes lingered on the dark wood of the wall beyond Thomas’ ear. “I told John to go on. I took his place.”

“Why?”

Little looked at him. _Pull away_ , Thomas thought, but worse than allowing Little’s touch he _craved_ it, and so he stayed like the wanton little creature this man had turned him into, this insipid, selfish thing who would turn tricks just to ensure the man before him never looked at anyone else ever again.

“I wished to,” Little said. “I had to talk to you. I realize I have no right to ask this of you but I would still ask that you hear me out. I—please know, Mr. Jopson, that I would never hold any answer against you. If you find what I have to say disagreeable, then if it is your wish I will never again burden you with my presence beyond what is necessary for the good of this expedition.”

Thomas’ bones shook, cocooned by flesh that suddenly seemed too weak to contain them. He did not know how to tell Little that his presence was a burden gladly borne and cherished the way a magpie hoarded her most precious of treasures, so instead he merely used the hand on the arm Little had not seized to lock the door to the captain’s cabin.

“I am listening.”

Little was shaken, as though he had not expected Thomas to hear him out. Thomas could see it in the flush of his cheeks; could feel it in the way Little’s hand tightened where it held him.

 _More_.

Thomas forced himself still. _Oh, sir, as if I could ever refuse you anything._

“You should know that I hold you in the highest regard,” Little said then. “The captain, too. You speak of foolish things, Mr. Jopson, but the only fool here is me, for I—I have come to wish for things beyond what you, or anyone, should be expected to give. I fear my regard has, or will, put you in a difficult position that I would never wish upon you. I want you to know of it, so that you might best decide how to proceed, in the interest of fairness. Your integrity…” Little’s jaw clenched. “Your happiness. I find they are of the utmost importance to me now, beyond what is rational. Beyond what is acceptable.”

“Lieutenant,” Thomas asked quietly, fear a carnivorous, unravelling vine trying to crawl up his throat. “What is this?”

Little looked tired. So very tired, and so very determined. “A confession. And a poor one at that.”

“No,” Thomas said, and this time he _did_ take a step back, suddenly, viciously _angry_. Little’s eyes widened, and he looked so unbearably sad and lost for a moment but Thomas could not look at him, could not _bear_ to. He had not thought Little could be so cruel, but _this_ , dangling it in front of Thomas’ face—a test, it had to be, from someone who had seen, someone who had put Little up to this—

 _You know he wouldn’t have agreed_ , something whispered, but Thomas shook his head against it. Rational thought had told him for years that Little would never look at him as anything other than a servant; he would not listen to it tell him it had been wrong all this time. _He isn’t that cruel_ , it persisted nonetheless. _You know this. You wouldn’t love him if he were. Oh, Tom…_

He closed his eyes, lifting one hand to cover his mouth for a moment before he removed it and looked back at Little. “Please do not make fun of me,” he whispered. “I could not bear it.”

Little looked _stricken_ , taking a step forward only to stop when Thomas moved back, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. His mouth was parted, and his breathing sounded ragged even to Thomas’ ears. It was instinct to want to reach out, to comfort, to _care_ , but Thomas smothered it ruthlessly. _Remember your place._

“I would never make fun of you, Jopson,” Little said at last, body still and shoulders tense, eyes flicking every which way, only for them to come back to rest on Thomas every time. “You have my word, and whatever else you need to prove my sincerity. Whatever your decision, I will obey.”

 _Obey_. Thomas’ own breathing had gone ragged, and he wished for nothing more than to disappear into the shadows once more, but he forced his eyes forward, forced himself to maintain the fraying thread of contact between them. 

_If you find what I have to say disagreeable_ , Little had said, _I will never again burden you with my presence beyond what is necessary for the good of this expedition_.

And Little meant it. Looking at him now, the way he held himself back, the way he held himself in check, the way his shoulders already seemed heavy with resignation as he waited on an order, a _rejection_ , from Thomas… he meant it. One word, a rejection in full, and Edward Little would never bother him again. Would never force the issue. He would take Thomas on his one word, nod, and never breathe of the matter ever again, to anyone, with no assurance that Thomas would do the same; no assurance that Thomas would not take this straight to Crozier.

It was an astounding action for a man of his class, to willingly hand that sort of power over to Thomas. In a world as regimented as Her Majesty’s navy, Edward Little held all the power here. He could force his presence on Thomas in any way he wanted, and only the word of the captain would be enough to shield Thomas so long as he remained aboard _Terror_. Thomas knew that. He had seen it happen before, again and again: men in power abusing it to get things not theirs to be gotten, because there existed no recourse for their lessers, not really.

And Little had given that power, all of it, to _him_.

Thomas exhaled. The hand dropped from his mouth. His back was to the wall, but he no longer felt it. 

If Little was not making fun, if he was _serious_ …

Dwelling had never been Thomas’ strong suit. Much like Little himself, he was a man who, once the options were weighed, was one to act. He did not truly think he could dwell on this if he wanted, for to do so would be to invite more disbelief, more incredulity—the impossible not just made possible but _attainable_ , and Thomas—

There were so many reasons why he should refuse it. Why he should take a step back and pretend this had never happened. It would be kinder for them both, _better_ for them both. The Thomas Jopson at the beginning of this expedition would have refused, gently. He would have taken the out, for the good of them both. It would have hurt, but he would have done it, and then he would have hardened himself and not given regret or remorse time to twist at flesh and sinew.

The Thomas Jopson he was now, hopelessly, foolishly infatuated with the man before him, stepped forward and slowly, decisively, curled a hand around the back of Little’s neck, fingers curling into those wavy locks as he said, softly:

“Kiss me.”

Then Little’s mouth was on his and it was all Thomas could do not to whimper, to surrender utterly as those steady hands came to rest at the back of his head, his neck, tilting Thomas’ mouth up as Little pressed closer. There was no shyness, but then Thomas should have known there wouldn’t be: when Little put his mind to a task, he devoted everything he was to it until he’d seen it through.

“God,” Little rasped against his mouth, and Thomas realized he’d grabbed the front of Little’s uniform, that he had _pulled_ Little closer until he could feel the searing heat of him, until Little had had no choice but to brace his other hand against the wood panelling that made up the door.

He did not let go. God help him, he _could_ not let go, but there was no reproach in Little’s face, only a soft-eyed wonder as he moved the hand from the back of Thomas’ neck to gently brush at his hairline, tucking the black strands as far behind Thomas ear as he could.

“Here,” Little said, eyes lowering before they lifted again, disbelieving, “is where I usually wake up.”

Thomas could not answer, not right away. Deserted by sense he, who had built a career on knowing when and where to speak, how and when and what to act like, could only flatten his hands against Little’s chest as the implication of the words hit him, the thick wool of Little’s uniform coat softer than it had any right being, the material well-worn by elements and by use.

“Mr. Jopson,” Little continued, dredging words up from a place Thomas desperately wished he himself could find, “I—“

Thomas kissed him again. Lifted himself up and pressed himself as close as he dared, using Little’s mouth to muffle his own whimper as he brought one hand up to cradle Little’s jaw, aware of the hands slipping down to settle at his hips, where he never wanted to forget the heaviness of them. In the back of his mind his years of training were screaming at him, instinct and caution a cacophony in some distant place that he could no longer pay heed to.

Edward Little had always made Thomas foolish. Those years of pursing his lips at Hoar for his simpering and frowning at Billy Gibson for his liaisons with the rat-faced caulker, those endless days and nights working to prove himself to the men around him in an attempt to lift himself out of the liminal existence of _captain’s steward_ , to find a place where he belonged in a crew that had looked at him as little more than a maverick, something outside of the chain of command that bound the rest of them to brotherhood—all of it, gone. Worse: thrown away willingly, all because of a fine man with warm eyes and a good heart.

 _Witless_ , Thomas told himself, for he’d no one else to tell him in that moment. _Daft. You’re mad, Tom._

He kissed Edward harder, sucking in a breath or two where he could. His fingers had lifted, tangling in Edward’s hair, just as soft as he had imagined, the thick chestnut waves filling the palms of his hands as Thomas held himself firmly in this new place of belonging. There were no thoughts of danger now, not when it was far too late for that, and when Edward moved forward, holding Thomas against the door, Thomas gladly allowed it, revelling in the closeness of him, the weight of him, the way Edward contained him and filled all the empty spaces in between.

 _A knife would have been kinder_ , Thomas thought as the kiss slowed, his mouth opening against Edward’s as he breathed. Or perhaps the knife had been plunged into him long ago, and he’d only been bleeding out slowly these years at sea, these months in ice.

Little’s brow rested against his, and when Thomas let his eyes flutter open— _when did I close them?_ —he saw that Little’s were closed as well. They opened when Thomas tilted his head back a bit, when Thomas’ teeth caught lightly on that bottom lip and pulled him forward. He heard the way Little breathed through his nose, felt the softness of his mouth. It was delicious, all of it, and Thomas never wanted anyone other than himself to be privy to it, not ever.

“As I said,” he whispered, lowering his eyes, his mouth, until he could press it to the underside of Little’s jaw. “Foolish things. And you make me very foolish, sir.”

He felt the minute tremble that ran through Edward’s body, and hummed deliriously at the way the hands at his waist tightened. “My name,” Edward said. “Please, Jopson.” His voice was a delicious thing. The first time Thomas heard it, he had been surprised by the cadence: a man Little’s height, he had expected it to be deeper, rougher, instead of the thing that it was, every vowel and consonant a full, sweet sound, like the honey he had once secreted from the jars his mother kept in his boyhood.

“Edward,” Thomas murmured before whispering his own next to Edward’s ear. The man in his arms shuddered at the end of it, and when Thomas’ hand rested against the back of his head again Edward bent forward, breathing against the crook of Thomas’ neck, a man come to rest in a trusted, beloved place.

His fantasies felt like paltry, disingenuous things now, but they whispered to him all the same from the part of his mind that was convinced he had dreamt this all up, the way he had thought he’d dreamt Edward himself up when he’d first laid eyes on him.

 _Oh, what a find this is, what a lovely, splendid thing_ , trilled that little Marylebone voice, the one that crept up on him whenever he found something shiny and beautiful to marvel at, to crave. Its prize this time: the rapidly beating heart under his palm. _Don’t you let this go now, Tom._

 _Don’t you let this pass you by_.

Not Marylebone, but something softer, something long forgotten: the voice of someone he’d once loved telling him not to waste his future but to chase it. He’d followed that voice to the ice of the Antarctic last time, slip of a thing that he’d been, over-awed by the massive stretch of the mountains and the knowledge that they were some of the first to ever lay eyes upon them.

Now, he followed it to the man before him, sliding his fingers through Edward’s hair and sighing as he took gladly the weight of him, grateful for the wall at his back.

They could not linger here all night. The officers would want to stay aboard _Erebus_ for as long as they could, no doubt, but Thomas knew Crozier would not want to spend anymore time than absolutely necessary making nice on a knife’s edge. Crozier might allow them to stay longer than he otherwise would have in the spirit of the holiday, but it wouldn’t be long enough for the things Thomas wanted now. He had sense enough still to know that.

Hope was harder to silence. She always was. Hope whispered: _there is still time,_ and laughed a tinkling, airy laugh as she bade him to use what he had, and then reminded him that now there were things to look _forward_ to.

He hated the sound of her laughter, and when Edward lifted his head Thomas turned his own to catch that mouth in another kiss. It was slow, it lingered, and although Edward’s hands had somehow managed to find their way around the buttons of his coat to the fabrics that lay beneath, and to the heated skin that lay beneath even those, there was nothing hurried or rushed about it.

 _Like a dream._ He could not remember the last time he’d had a proper one of those. He thought a dream must have been the way Edward’s hands— _cold_ , so cold; Thomas welcomed them—skimmed his hip to splay across his bare belly, causing Thomas’ breathing to hitch, his head falling back, leaving his neck bare.

Edward’s eyes glittered. _Gleamed_. A familiar hunger stared back at Thomas from their depths, and he used the hand on the back of Edward’s head to pull him in again, whimpering when he felt those teeth at the vulnerable skin of his throat, nipping at the tendons there.

“I want—“ Edward started, but he broke off in favour of biting down hard enough to make Thomas gasp, pressing his body against the entire length of Thomas’ own. _How well he fits there,_ Thomas thought as Edward’s hips slotted against his, putting pressure on the hardness slowly growing. He wanted to wrap his legs around Edward, to welcome him into the cradle of his thighs, to give Edward whatever it was that he wanted. Thomas wondered if Edward would _make_ him beg for it before smiling with the sudden knowledge that _no, he would not, not unless he knew you wanted it._

A gentleman, his Lieutenant Little.

Thomas gave a small roll of his hips. Watched with his lungs in his throat as Edward’s eyes went dark and closed before he shuddered. Before those lips pulled into a grimace of concentration.

“I want to do this right,” Edward said. He looked the part of a wild man, or a man slowly becoming wild. “You—deserve to have this done _right_.”

Thomas’ heart joined his lungs, battling for space in his throat. Everything he wanted to say was horrendously soppy, the sentiments straight out of some atrocious penny dreadful like his father’d used to bring home in what seemed like another lifetime. He did not know how to process this level of care, of _consideration_ , or the fact that Edward thought him worthy of it at all. He realized then that he might have made a mistake dragging Edward down to his level, but his claws were sunk deep now, and Thomas knew, far within, that he was not selfless enough to let Edward go if this man would deign to have him.

The backs of his fingers brushed against Edward’s cheek, and he smiled.

“Edward.” The sound of his Christian name seemed to unmoor something in the man before him, and Thomas felt a possessive heat flare in his core. _Mine_ , it said. _Mine, mine, mine_. He did not know what showed in his face, only that whatever it was, it made Edward suck in a breath, eyes still impossibly dark.Then his hands were on Thomas again, and Thomas was tilting his head back and keening what would have been a _yes_ had Edward not swallowed it, contained it, contained _him_. _There’s no time_ , sense said, but Thomas told it, in a voice that brokered no argument: _I will make it._

There was no time for right. Thomas, a beggar in the worst possible way, would settle for anything and everything he could get.

“Please,” he gasped when he was able, his hands fisted tight again in the high collar of Edward’s uniform. What he begged for he did not know, only that he wanted as much of it as Edward would give. _Good_ , came the whisper, and Thomas whimpered, closing his eyes to it. Edward’s hand had found its way under his clothes again, pressing once more against the heated skin of his belly, and then Thomas’ hands, usually so sure, were fumbling at buttons he had done up before on a different man, and he was pushing all that fine wool off of Edward’s shoulders, leaving it to crumple on the floor in a heap and pushing Edward _back_ , away from the door, away from the ears that might linger on the other side.

Edward’s hand caught his waist, turning him around. His face was set, determined, his steps sure as he walked Thomas back—a man running on instinct. The backs of Thomas’ thighs hit something, and he heard Edward grunt before there were hands at his waist again, lifting him _up_ before settling him on the cabinet that had been set against the panelling of the central propeller well, and _oh_ how Thomas coloured at that, how his cheeks went _red_ with pleasure at how easily Edward had manoeuvred him, placed him, hardly giving Thomas any time at all to wrap his legs around Edward’s hips, to pull him down into the centre of them at last, a ragged groan escaping him before he could stop himself.

Edward came willingly, god bless him, strong hands braced on either side of Thomas to steady himself. In the soft glow of the lamps he looked a fine, exquisite thing, perfectly tailored to each and every one of Thomas’ tastes and Thomas _hungered_ , a great, greedy creature that wanted nothing more than to _feed_ now that it had been awoken from its slumber. Edward fit here, he _fit_ here, nestled against Thomas’ body, slotted where Thomas wanted him most, panting above Thomas and looking at him like he hung the moon and Thomas preened at that, cooed, the part of him that wished nothing more than to be desired and needed and wanted purring somewhere deep inside.

“You—“ Edward started. He seemed to catch himself, but when Thomas tightened his legs he seemed to nearly choke, falling forward and pressing himself against Thomas’ front. “I think I might still be dreaming.”

It was another admission. Another confession. It was Edward showing the softness of his own belly, even as his hand slipped under Thomas’ shirt again, up and up and _up_ until it rested over the cavity that housed Thomas’ furiously beating heart. He had nothing to say in response to it, and so he said nothing at all. Instead, he drew Edward back down again, drew him close, rolling his hips and savouring the low _hiss_ that it garnered him before Edward was nearly tearing at the fabric of his shirt to get it off, to reach more skin, one of the buttons hitting the wood and rolling into the darkness. He wanted more time, he always wanted more _time_ , but if this was all they had Thomas would seize it, was _determined_ to seize it: his marriage bed of panelled wood in this strange little home on the frozen sea.

His hands slipped down Edward’s chest, lifting himself out of his own shirt, out of his own waistcoat, unsure when Edward had gotten it undone but uncaring when the result was what he craved most, and then he _was_ purring, or close to it, when he felt bare skin against his own, Edward’s open shirt hanging around them like a shroud, a veil, before Edward was hauling him up again, off the table, and pressing him again the wood of the propeller well.

“I want—“ he started, and Thomas smothered that, his hands framing Edward’s face, his legs drawn tight around Edward’s hips as Edward braced him against the wood, his hips thrusting _up_ , an animal motion that had Edward growling as though he couldn’t help himself. It was base, it was _animal_ , and Thomas wanted it, more of it, _all_ of it. _Come back to me_ , he’d whispered out in the snow, his sailor off to war and to sea, and Edward had not only come back, he’d never _left_.

“Yes,” Thomas whispered. _Whatever you want. Take me. All of me._

_You have it already._

_“_ Do you have—“

“The table,“ Thomas gasped as Edward worried another mark into his neck, and Edward grimaced, brow furrowing, as if he couldn’t bear to let Thomas go even for a _moment_ , but he did because he had to, and Edward Little was a man who saw things through to their bitter end. With clear reluctance he left Thomas to stand on shaky legs as he retreated to where Thomas had placed the little yellow-and-red tin what felt like only moments ago, and then an undetermined amount of time later he was back, pushing Thomas back into the wood, a low rumble leaving him when Thomas wrapped a leg around his calf, drawing him close, hands moving to the front of his trousers.

It was the work of a moment. A moment, nothing more, and then the cool air was hitting them both and Edward had him again, lifting him, pressing him back against the woodwork and kissing him as though he wanted nothing more than to devour Thomas before he was drawing Thomas away. The door to the captain’s sleeping place lay closed, a forbidden wing that neither of them dared access, but that was all right, it was _all right_ , because Thomas had all he wanted here, and he needed nothing more, though he let out a startled gasp when, instead of the hard wood of the cabinet, his back was met with the familiar wool of Edward’s uniform coat.

His lungs seized, the care in such a small gesture enough to unmoor him, leaving him floating and adrift until he felt Edward’s teeth scraping at his jaw, down his neck, his chest, his _hip_ , until Thomas had to bring his hand up and bite down on the bottom of his own thumb when he felt that mouth take him in. It was too much, it was everything, it _wasn’t enough_ , and Thomas almost did not hear the sound of the tin opening, almost did not hear the way Edward pulled back long enough to hush him softly before he was pressing slowly in, one finger, two, time a meaningless, empty thing just as Thomas was, wanton and mewling in the cradle of Edward’s coat, surrounded on all sides by his own failings, his own foolishness, his own weakness.

“Thomas,” Edward rasped, and there was that awe again, every movement he made deliberate as he pressed in, twisted his fingers slowly, spreading them. Desire had not been content with remaining in Thomas’ cheeks, and so she spread everywhere else, too, a long line of red as he panted, as he tried so desperately to quiet himself. He could read hesitance in Edward’s movements, in his eyes—uncertainty in the face of a new thing.

Thomas whimpered. Reached out, drew Edward in, bit down on that bottom lip and held him there until he thought he could breathe again.

“Now,” he said, and Edward exhaled in a rush, leaning his forehead against Thomas’, and then Thomas could feel him pressing slowly, carefully _in_ , every keen and moan he made swallowed by Edward, neatly contained, the power Edward had given him at the beginning of it all returned in full until Thomas could do naught but take and take and _take_.

“God,” he hissed, head falling back as Edward’s teeth dragged down again, finding the crook of Thomas’ neck and biting down _hard_ as he seated himself fully, hands, slick with the salve, running up Thomas’ sides, up over his chest, anchoring him and holding him down.

It was _gentle_ , unbelievably so, and Thomas could not bear it, could not bear the promise that such gentleness contained, but Edward was looking at him with that selfsame awe, as though Thomas were some beautiful thing come to life before him, as though he, too, could not believe any of this—

The first thrust had Thomas’ nails digging into Edward’s shoulders. _That’s it_ , he wanted to croon, to cry. _Yes, that’s it, more, God, I’ve been so empty—_

A second, a third, slow and gentle. The wildness in Edward’s eyes was back, his mouth half-open, parted, panting. The fifth sent Thomas’ hand scrambling for purchase above his head, finding and bracing against the covered propeller well. Edward’s mouth was soft against his but his kisses were hard, demanding, taking everything that Thomas had so foolishly offered and returning it with a delicious fullness Thomas knew he would never be able to replicate, so lovely a sensation was it.

 _Mine_ , he thought again, and he saw the answering sentiment in Edward’s dark eyes when he drew back, huffing, straining: an animal still holding himself in check. Thomas’ eyes flared, his mouth twisting, and he hooked his other arm around Edward’s neck, drawing him down again even as Edward’s hands slid down his flank to slip under the small of his back, as if to angle him up.

“Please,” Thomas said again. He dug his heels in, pulled Edward as close as he dared, his own hand slipping between them, taking a firm hold and stroking in time with every thrust. _There’s no time_ —

_I don’t need much more time._

“Please, please, _Edward_!” _I want it. Give it all to me._

The animal heard. Responded. Edward growled, a proprietary thing, and then he was lifting Thomas’ hips, thrusting harder, grinding _deeper_ and swallowing every single sound that Thomas could not afford to make.

“Sweet thing,” Edward panted against Thomas’ mouth before smothering the moan that followed. “Sweet thing, such a sweet dream, so good for me—“

It was over, _over_ , Thomas’ head falling back and his back arching, his belly hot, Edward’s teeth at his throat, an answering warmth spreading deep inside as his whole body shook and shuddered.

Against him Edward was a heated weight, heavy and welcome, holding him down as fine tremors wracked Thomas’ body, and he became distantly aware of the small, feather-light kisses Edward was pressing against his neck, almost an apology. When Edward tried to draw back, Thomas mewled, mind unable to process anything other than the fact that he wanted Edward to stay, here, against him, within him, where he was meant to be.

A hand touched his brow, smoothed the hair from his face, and Thomas pressed unthinkingly into it, boneless. There was a low murmur in his ear, but Thomas heard none of it, could only hiss and then keen lowly as Edward slowly pulled out and then away. It made him feel empty, drifting again, and he exhaled harshly, lifting a hand to rest over his eyes as he shuddered. He heard a shuffling, the sound of drawers opening— _how_ _—_ and then Edward was lifting Thomas again, removing him from the familiar wool of the coat and lowering him to a small nest of linens before he pressed close, drew the rest of the linens around them, trapping the heat inside.

They breathed there, the two of them, the only sound the whistle of the wind and the subtle moaning of a ship under constant pressure, Edward lowering himself to rest between Thomas’ thighs once more, where Thomas wanted to keep him, always.

 _We haven’t long_ , Thomas didn’t say, because he could see the clock running out in the way Edward closed his eyes.

“Just a moment more,” Thomas said instead, his own eyes fluttering shut. His mind was too sluggish to process much of anything, one knee lifting to further contain Edward where he liked him best, a sigh escaping as he did so. His hand glided up Edward’s back, slipping into his hair. There were words to be had, eventually. Questions to answer. Silly things that didn’t matter such as _how_ and _why_ and _when_ ; things that could wait until a better time. What was one more rule broken, one more folly, in the face of all this? Sense was abandoned, the rules he’d created for himself smashed beyond repair. Now there was only the man in his arms, solid and real against him, this most impossible thing, so much better than any fantasy.

The ice groaned. The ship creaked. Somewhere beneath them all, the sea lapped at their wooden home, whispering ancient promises into their bones. _Welcome back_ , she seemed to say, and as Edward leaned up, settled his mouth against Thomas’, languid and so dangerously close to _loving,_ Thomas found he could do nothing but surrender to it. The young maid’s wait was over.

His man had come home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let it be known that the work-in-progress title for this was "the wed-and-wife fic" because I... am terribly indulgent, and also let Thomas be Edward's wife. No real historical notes today unless you want my pedantic research into the layout of Crozier's cabin/the pantry/the lower deck in general, or my research into thimbles and lanolin.
> 
> [ **I made a graphics set for this fic!**](https://empirics.tumblr.com/post/639675352156946432/you-want-him-to-keep-you-shame-whispered-when-it) You can find it on my [tumblr](https://empirics.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments (and kudos) are delicious food that I _thrive_ on 🖤


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